There was no path.
Just wind.
The kind that tugged on your sleeves like it had something important to say but couldn't use words.
They followed it anyway.
Because it felt right.
Flick complained first.
"I don't trust invisible trails. Feels like someone forgot to finish drawing the map."
Sera kicked a pebble that didn't hit the ground—it just hovered.
"I think we're off the map."
Solin agreed. "This is beyond the written world."
The wind led them to a crack in the sky.
Not a door.
Not a gate.
Just… a fold.
Like the world had been creased by someone bored and curious.
They stepped through one by one.
No screams.
No flash.
Just a soft shiver through their bones.
On the other side—
Silence.
But not empty.
Listening silence.
The kind that waits for something to begin.
And then they saw it:
A hill of floating letters.
Not rocks.
Not dirt.
Letters.
Words.
Sentences, half-formed.
Some spinning.
Some glowing.
Some arguing with each other in tiny squeaks.
"It's beautiful," Amaryn whispered.
"And weird," Flick added.
Sera picked up a wriggling comma.
It purred.
She dropped it quickly.
A voice echoed from above.
Not angry.
Not loud.
Just… tired.
"Another group of seekers. Sigh. Do you have a title at least?"
Elira looked up.
An owl sat on a sentence-tree.
Wearing glasses and a scarf of quotation marks.
It squinted at them.
"Don't say 'Chosen Ones.' I'll scream."
Elira stepped forward. "We're not chosen. We're… kind of figuring it out."
The owl nodded, satisfied.
"Good. Now. Mind your thoughts. This place—The Origin—isn't for loose tongues. Speak the wrong truth, and it becomes real."
They stepped carefully.
Every word mattered here.
Flick almost said he was hungry but stopped when a roast chicken fell out of the air and began chasing him.
They reached the center.
A pool.
But not of water.
Of ink.
Deep.
Still.
Alive.
This is where stories began.
Every tale.
Every whisper.
Every lie and legend.
Elira knelt at the edge.
Saw her reflection ripple.
Except it wasn't just her.
It was her mother.
Standing behind her.
Smiling.
Whole.
Elira gasped and almost reached in.
But Varn grabbed her wrist.
"Don't. It's memory-ink. It shows what you miss most."
She pulled back.
Breathing hard.
The others stared quietly into the pool.
Each seeing something they didn't speak of.
Then, one ripple changed.
Not memory.
Not wish.
A vision.
A fire.
A gate cracking.
A boy with no page standing on a mountain, holding back something huge with only his shadow.
And Elira—watching, crying, calling his name.
Then it vanished.
They all blinked.
Sera whispered, "What did that mean?"
Elira stood.
"I think we're part of a story that's still writing itself."
And behind them, the owl hooted once.
Loud.
Sharp.
"Then you'd better hurry. Something is te
aring out the last chapters."